


Assuefazione

by spider___lily



Series: A spider's thread [2]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Again, Angel Dust in Drag (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust-Typical Sexual Content (Hazbin Hotel), Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Non-Consent, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Gang Member Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Graphic Description, Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Hurt Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Recreational Drug Use, Sex Worker Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Valentino Bashing (Hazbin Hotel), Valentino Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), so y'all there's murder in this brothel tonight, well half of this is literally a when-they-were-alive kind of thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spider___lily/pseuds/spider___lily
Summary: Assuefazionenoun[feminine]/asːwefa’tsjone/[italian]1. Medicine (to a substance)addiction, habit2. dependence [noun] (also dependency) the state of being addicted to somethingTheir relationship was a vicious cycle of the unhealthiest kind, and even though one of them wanted to stop, the other was always right by his side, dragging him back in with his smoke and mirrors.(Please read the notes at the beginning, and read all the tags)
Relationships: - Abusive relationship, Angel Dust/Valentino (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: A spider's thread [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843573
Comments: 42
Kudos: 112





	Assuefazione

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, first of all, I wanna talk about possible triggers, so that I can stop you from reading this.
> 
> Writing this felt like getting a huge weight off my chest, and yeah, this is another vent-fic, but I know I would feel absolutely triggered by some of the shit I wrote, so of course I wanna warn y'all.  
> First of all, this is about Angel Dust and Valentino, so of course, if you're part of the Hazbin Fandom, you know how their dynamic is abusive. This is a personal hot take of mine, but I think Angel started working for him because they knew each other when they were alive (otherwise, seriously, why would you trust a random overlord, what the fuck), and I decided then to add other factors that would make evident that what they did was wrong.  
> 1) age difference: Antonio (yeah I'm using the Italian name, sue me) is seventeen when he starts sleeping with Val in this, and the fucker is 35. So yes, be careful, please.  
> 2) drug abuse: Val introduces Angel to drugs, and they have intercourse many times when the latter is too high to understand. It's in the tags, and it's here, so please, if this triggers you, close this tab and look for something else. Please.  
> 3) Angel is graphically murdered here. I wrote that part at three a.m and I know. I'm fucked up. I like gore, sure, and I had fun with its description, but please don't read if this triggers you.  
> 4) the story happens in the Forties, and taking what my grandparents think about us LGBT+ people and the community, yes, there are a couple of paragraphs where I wrote that "homosexuals are scum" and other homophobic statements. So. This is not what I think, but it's a thought that was popular in the past. The 1900s were hell for the entire (still not existing) community, and I thought I would include something historically accurate. A rigid Catholic environment where people can't see anything but their hatred for someone different is a past we must remember, so that we can never make those mistakes again. (I'm an atheist, but my entire family is firmly Catholic so I grew up going to church every Sunday and receiving every single sacrament). Having said so, shit, writing that part hurt me, so please, if you might feel less valid after reading those paragraphs, tell me to go to hell, you're valid and deserving of love, and Imma kick in the teeth whoever misgenders or insults you, okay?
> 
> I think this are all the trigger warnings I need to give before letting yall read, so good luck, and please tell me if I need to add other warnings.

It was an unusually calm day in Hell, one when nobody, not even a mediocre lesser demon, would try to cause some ruckus, afraid of being subjected to the annual Purge. It was already the three hundred and sixtieth day of the year, anyway, so really, who would feel like slaughtering weak demons that were going to be easy meat for the Angels?

The Porn Studios, however, were immersed in their usual abuzz.

Strippers and prostitutes alike, like busy little ants, were running from a set to the next, hoping to squeeze in a short pause before the next job or practice, their schedule being filled to the brim by their boss.

Only one person had the chance to stand idle and enjoy his little subjects' work.

Overlord Valentino sat on the comfortable burgundy couch in his office, lazily facing the one-way glass from where one could see the entire studio.

This time, no one was keeping him company, and although he could have called up one of his favourite sluts, he wanted to enjoy the silence, for the time being.

His trademark sunglasses lay on the mahogany table on the sofa’s left, his thin, long legs spread wide as he sat, and his upper arms were stretched behind his head while the other pair was mindlessly playing with the white fur of his coat.

His attention was focused on one employee in particular.

Angel Dust was busy with a photoshoot for a porn magazine, so of course he was showing off all his merchandise, exactly as he'd been taught, and the pimp’s gaze felt drawn to him, as if he were a flame, burning bright and high.

Picking up one of the three expensive binoculars he'd set on a stand on his left, he could see that the spider had been dolled up _very_ prettily. He was wearing nothing but white lace lingerie and cherry-red pearls on his body, and his head sported a diadem of red, shiny gems and woven lace. Raining down his arms and dangling from the soft fur on his chest, the jewels showered him like drops of blood, and he would've bet that those beads were also in other less _appropriate_ places.

The Overlord sighed; red and white had always looked good on his slut, even when he was alive.

He had always thought his Tonì looked stunning when his white button ups and his striped vests were dyed red, and his pale, milky skin looked utterly delicious when caked with the blood of his family's enemies.

But Valentino was the only one who knew how truly ravishing he had looked with his chest opened up like a gift, his pretty face bloodied and bruised, his shiny red lips open in a silent, bloody scream.

Ah, his favourite Angel Dust-addict had always known how to charm him like no one ever had before, with his ethereal beauty and his utter shamelessness.

And Valentino had thanked any powerful force that moved the universe, for the spider demon couldn't remember how he had died, and saying "overdose" had been an extremely convenient excuse at the time he'd found him again in Hell, when he'd been walking around the second circle, looking for new employees among the most lustful sinners.

He still treasured the memory of their first encounter, and of every single one after that.

Antonio Ragni, or _Anthony_ , as the other Americans called him, had been the second son of his protector, and the tall, skinny young man would come to his small brothel, situated in a dirty alleyway of New York, to get the _pizzo_ for his old man once a month.

The appearance of the sixteen-year-old who looked like a honest-to-fuck cherub, with his sandy blond hair, his gentle smile and freckled cheeks, dressed in second-hand clothing that looked slightly too big for his slender frame, but that clung _to all the right places_ , was a jarring contrast to the obscenities that happened in that establishment.

Nonetheless, by the fifth time the kid had come asking for his father's money, Valentino had invited him in.

He'd hoped to taint him a little and maybe to take back some of his money, counting on the impulsive decisions of a young man and his libido to do all the work for him, but the young mafioso hadn't even glanced twice at the half-naked ladies who had waved and winked at him, and even the boldest one who'd literally tried to drag him to one of the side rooms had been kindly rejected, his hands thin but firm around the girl's wrists, and his voice retained a certain kindness that was typical of men who were used to living among other women, something that was a rare sight in such a brothel.

Valentino had reluctantly given him the money and watched him go, wondering if the kid even had a dick, because _holy shit wouldn't that be sad_ , especially for the damn sonuvabitch he had to pay.

In the next few months, Val had gotten to know the mafioso, and he'd learnt to enjoy the conversations they shared as the kid warmed up to him.

He'd been told stories about his mother and his beloved twin sister, and in return, he had shared his experiences with his clients.

In almost a year, they had gotten to the point of hugging whenever they met, exchanging pleasant conversations in Italian while walking around, getting a drink or smoking a good cigar before getting the money.

He'd come to him only when he had to get the _pizzo_ , and sometimes he would come to him with stains of fresh blood on his white shirt, on his neck or on his hands. Valentino wondered if the kid did it on purpose, to remind him that, no matter his age and appearance, he still was a cold-blooded murder.

At the time, he had lied to himself, saying that what he'd felt in front of that sight was _definitely_ a rush of fear, and that sometimes, human bodies reacted like _that_ when scared, and there was nothing he could do.

No matter how long they’d known each other, Antonio had never dared asking to spend a couple of hours with one of his girls, not even while joking or drunk, and Valentino, in the thirty-five years of his life, had never met such a frigid young man.

Weren't they all supposed to be hormonal wrecks, ready to pounce on the first hole they could find to pop their cherry?

Val knew he had been one.

“You know what, Anto', since we're well acquainted and I like you, I'd let you sleep with my youngest girl.” He had offered one time, out of the blue, not really thinking about it as he counted the money. The brothel had been working well, that month, and he felt generous. “She's a real beauty, I think she's the same age as you, and she'd be honoured to have fun with such a charming young gentleman. I'd only charge you twenty- you know what, you could have her for _free_ , unless you wanted to tip her, so, whatcha think?”

An uncomfortable silence had answered him, a complete opposite to the cheerful buzz that accompanied the kid's every move, so he had looked up from the bills.

The mafioso had looked quite conflicted, as if he didn't really know how to answer to his proposal, and Valentino had thought that he didn't know how to accept a favour like that, so of course he'd tried to laugh it off, saying that he didn't need to act so restrained, that he was young and that he could ask for another girl if he didn't like her, but Antonio had just spoken up, a serious edge in his voice, not even looking straight at him.

“No, thank you, Mista Val. And please, refrain from asking that of me again.”

The pimp, from his chair, had felt utterly baffled, and even slightly _offended_.

Were his girls not pretty enough? What the fuck, he wasn't even make him gonna pay, and he made sure they were always cleaned up afterwards, _so what the Hell was his damage?_

He hadn't even noticed that he had said all of that aloud.

“I am just really _not_ interested in that, Val. I am the son of a mafia boss, and if I wanted, I know I'm attractive enough that I could have _any_ girl sleeping with me in a heartbeat.” the young man had tried to reason with him, putting up a confident face, hoping that he could placate the older man’s outburst.

“What, then you don't wanna fuck? What are you, still a fucking virgin? Aren't you an adult? Did growing up with those women make you soft, huh? Are you fucking your sister, huh, fucking-” and as soon as he had heard the harsh sound of a gun being loaded, he had known he had _utterly fucked up._

“Valentino, I am not interested in women like _that_. Don't think that what we have makes you entitled to talk to me like that, I am the son of the man who keeps you alive, and I have every right to off you right now for what you've said about my sister.” Antonio had muttered, the gun pointed to Val's forehead, and even his usually kind doe-eyes looked downright murderous, a dangerous edge in his voice.

But Valentino was feeling brave that day, though, and he was sure that the kid wouldn't have killed him, – he was wrong, he'd survived because he'd been incredibly lucky and his tongue had saved him, because in the mafia, _la famiglia viene prima di tutto,_ family comes before anything else – so he'd asked, feeling quite petty and staring at him right in the eyes:

“If you're not interested in women, then what, you like men?”

One could have heard a pin drop.

The kid had prided himself to be quite the negotiator, but he _really_ needed to work on his poker face.

Valentino had hit bullseye.

Being young and bold though, the mafioso had lowered the gun, smirked at the man who was almost twice as old as he was, and asked, the smugness in his voice thick enough to be cut with a knife:

“What, you offering?”

And that had sealed their first deal.

They had hooked up many times, and the feeling of dominating someone who could have killed him too many times to bother counting had felt incredibly intoxicating to Valentino.

The noises the kid made could make him pretend he was screwing a woman, but honestly, after the first few times, he'd gotten to enjoy the feeling of having sex with a man.

There wasn't the danger or knocking him up, and unless the little bitch tattled to his old man – which Val knew he _wouldn’t_ , for it was pretty much common knowledge that, in the Forties, homosexuals were nothing more than _scum_ , an ink-black stain to a family’s reputation, and Antonio cared too much about his family to ever wish to bring shame upon them –, no one would have ever known.

Anyway, if he ever felt like fucking a woman, but his bitch was available, Antonio had never backed down from crossdressing, saying something about being used to it thanks to his sister.

Wearing his prostitutes' dresses and corsets, with just a hint of blood-red lipstick on his thin lips, some red powder on his cheeks and maybe some mascara, one would've thought that he was just one of Valentino's whores, a pretty blonde with short hair and a fairly flat chest.

On the other hand, the pimp had found that he enjoyed it the most when the kid couldn't really control himself anymore, so he had spiked his whiskey more often than not, and he'd introduced him to what he liked to call, _"his worst vice"._

Drugs.

Amphetamine, cocaine, crack, marijuana and LSD became their companions during most intercourses, and after the first few times Antonio had tried them, maybe because he liked the feeling of abandon and peace they gave him, or maybe because life had been too hard on him at the time, he had started asking for more.

As time went by, they had taken in new thrills to try, such as ecstasy and heroin, but PCP though? That had been the one the kid had reacted the best to.

A sprinkle of Angel Dust in his cigars and his tobacco, and the kid was _hooked_ , begging Val for more.

Angel Dust was known be really addictive, and he couldn't blame the young mafioso for being such a slut for it – but he did, at the time. Teasing him for his breathy pleas and trembling hands while they fumbled with his belt was too good of an opportunity to pass up, and the kid was so _easy_ to manipulate, only an idiot wouldn’t have done the same.

Then he'd found out that long term abuse of the powder caused other side effects, and in five years the kid had slowly become a shadow of his former self, feeling depressed or irritated unless he was high or getting fucked, his memory giving him more trouble than it was worth with his family's business.

He still remembered when they first started getting a little spicier during their meetings, the time his angel had put a knife in his hand, asking to have Valentino's initials carved on his skin as a memento.

The pimp had indulged in the kid's fantasy, not even thinking about the fact that he wasn't lucid enough to really ask for anything, and he'd sliced the white canvas he'd been offered, cutting the edges of the V, carved exactly on his heart, to make them look like spirals, and he'd never been so glad to have such a clean and beautiful handwriting in his entire life.

The next step had been choking, and then cuts again, then thick rope around his arms and his neck, and the kid was always asking for more, for it to _hurt_ , because hurting made him feel less disconnected from his body, and the drugs helped dealing with the pain.

It was a vicious circle that both of them, the sadist and the masochist, were addicted to.

His dearest memory, however, had to be the night he had killed him.

It was a night in July 1947, and ever since the War had ended, his protector had asked for more and more money, almost taking away every single dollar the pimp had gained, and the brothel was on the verge of closing forever.

Antonio hadn't come to their monthly meeting, that first of July, but his cherub had come to him on the thirteenth, crying because his father had kicked him out for being _un frocio_ , his pretty face bruised and his upper lip split, still bleeding.

He'd been trembling like a leaf, sobbing his eyes out, begging for forgiveness for being such a disgrace and a disappointment, asking his dear Mista Valentino to help him numb the pain, to embrace him and make him forget about the entire world, to become his world.

He'd gone to one of the side rooms to get the lube, chuckling to himself, _because PCP had made him so much weaker than he used to be,_ but by the time he'd come back, his angel had emptied the entire box of Angel Dust, drunk the two glasses of strong whiskey he'd prepared for the two of them, downed a few pills of ecstasy and LSD, and was currently passed out on the carpet, his breathing shallow and ragged.

Valentino had felt something snap in him, that night, in front of that sight.

Before he knew what he was doing, the blond man was on his bed, still dressed and still breathing, his dark eyes opened but dull, as if he weren't really there, and Valentino was gripping tightly on a sharp knife.

If he was going to kill himself anyway, then Val wanted to leave to the little bitch's father a pretty message.

As if it were one of their scenes, the pimp had dragged the knife – they usually used a smaller one, but by chance his hand had found a pretty large kitchen knife, one of those that were usually meant to cut large chunks of raw meat – from his bellybutton to his Adam's apple, slicing the white fabric and the soft skin underneath, dragging from his lips a pained, disconnected whine.

He had teared the shirt away, stroked the long cut with his fingers, and then, looking for more of the pretty, red blood, he had pushed his fingers in, until he could directly touch the other man's bones, getting a more exciting reaction this time, with babbled pleas and ragged breaths, the man's pupils blown almost as large as the entire iris.

In a rush of excitement, Valentino had pushed the entire hand in, squeezing the young man’s organs, touching what he guessed were his lungs, until he found the thrashing youth's most beautiful part.

His heart beat like crazy, pumped full of drugs and adrenaline, and nothing had ever been as satisfying as wrapping his hands around it, hearing his angel's bloodcurdling scream right before he tore it out, cutting his voice off, once and for all.

He'd spent the rest of the night watching over the corpse, stroking with bloodstained fingers his cheeks and bruises, the porcelain skin quickly cooling off.

The sun rose again on July 14th, and Valentino had already disappeared from the burning brothel, in his hands only a suitcase with his most precious belongings and a bloodied jar containing his trophy.

He'd lived for a few more years, killing young boys in memory of his first victim and running away from an enraged sister, and one night, staring at an old photo of him and Antonio, the bloody jar still in his freezer, he'd shot himself in the head.

Finding himself in Hell had not been a surprise, but what a _rush_ it had been, to wake up again with that kind of powers after such a pitiful end.

Old habits die hard, and having died in the 1960s, he had decided he'd open another brothel in Hell.

It has been a habit of his, getting thirteen lustful sinners from the second circle of Hell every one hundred and ninety-fourth day of the year, to always have some fresh meat. 

Then, the brothel had become a porn studio in the 1970s, during the Golden Age of porn, and by chance, he'd met him again.

He'd found him alone, stark naked, curled up next to a wall with his six arms around his legs as he tried to seek shelter from the violent storm he'd been forced under, the punishment for the lustful souls who'd let themselves be led astray by their passions.

Ah, some of the punishments in Hell, those that were reserved for the weaker souls in order to avoid overpopulation, truly were poetic, huh.

He'd recognised him right away, his whimpers still familiar after all those years – almost thirty, they must've been – and the spider had pleaded the Overlord to take him away, in the name of the bond they'd shared when they were alive.

And Valentino, being one of the most sadistic Overlords Hell had ever had the chance to host, had _agreed_ , perfectly aware of how fucked up that was, wondering how much he could make with his favourite slut, _the whore he'd murdered,_ in a place where everything was legit.

He had given him a new name, an identity he couldn't leave behind no matter what, for it was on the soul-contract, and thanks to it, the spider demon couldn't even say or write his previous name, and the sheer thought of it would give him a migraine for days.

Now, after working for more than fifty years under him, the slut had completely embraced his new persona; he'd officially become the even more shameless, most famous porn star in Hell, and he still regarded Val as his only _real_ support, 'cause even though he'd met other sinners who weren't interested in his body, like that Cherri Bomb chick, or even his beloved sister Molly, his dear Angel Dust knew that no one had enough power to truly keep him safe.

No one, but his Mista Valentino.

The photoshoot was almost finished, as he had noticed that the photographer was letting the slut look at his own pictures, and the pimp really wanted to see that outfit a little closer.

“Oh, Ashley?” he had called out, knowing that his secretary would hear him. “Be a doll, and call up Angel Dust for me, won't you? Tell him not to change out of his clothes, and cancel his appointments for the next three hours.”

No one answered him, but in five minutes, three timid knocks resounded against the door.

He had just muttered a quick _“Avanti”,_ and his favourite spider demon had come inside.

Seeing from afar really didn't do him justice, and Val knew he would have to absolutely buy a copy of every single shot the photographer had taken.

The pearls on his head shone like pretty rubies, keeping on his head a long white veil, and the strings of lace and gems hugged every curve of the spider's soft body.

His lips were painted in his favourite ink-black lipstick, his eyes contoured with the same dark shade that faded to a blood red hue at the edges.

His six hands were adorned with white gloves made of delicate lace, geometrical patterns that reminded him of a spider's web sewed on it with a thick, red thread.

He really wanted to ruin all of that, tear it apart like he had done with his shirt the night he had killed him.

“Mista Val, uh, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Ah, how nice was it that the daughter of Lucifer was trying to make his slut a little more polite. It made him feel a little nostalgic, because his angel had been so cute and ready for all that pleasantries bullshit when he was still sixteen and innocent, but he wouldn't let her fuck up his perfect whore.

He had made him like that once, and he could do it as many times as he wanted.

“Oh, Angel Cakes, look how pretty they made ya.” and he had made a motion with his finger toward himself, the meaning of it pretty clear, _come closer._

“Yeah, I know, I look fucking incredible in this.” the spider had said with renewed confidence _– and that was the narcissistic, proud-to-be-sinful Angel Dust he'd made –,_ stepping closer to his boss. “The boys brought it for me, said that their boss wanted me to wear it during the shoot and that it was a present.”

Fucking Hell, he'd have to look for the perverted sonuvabitch and thank him before asking for some more money for his slut’s services.

“Sembri una sposa durante la prima notte di nozze.” he'd mumbled absentmindedly against his chest fur, moving his lower left hand up and down his thigh, the upper right taking one of the gloved hands.

_You look like a bride during the first wedding night._

Angel looked downright flustered, and shit, wasn't that hilarious? The whore could take six guys at once with ease in his gangbangs, but he'd blush like a virgin whenever someone gave him a couple of nice words.

That was probably how the dumb Princess had even made him join in her hotel for freaks who think that redemption is a possible option.

_Hell ain’t a hotel, sweet cheeks, and no one can leave it._

He kissed his hand, watching the spider get even more flustered, and then, with a quick tug, the other demon was sitting on his lap, his long legs bent in a kneeling position on either side of the pimp's legs.

Sneaking a hand behind his back, he firmly grabbed the spider's ass, the gloved hand still at his lips.

“Posso baciare la sposa?” _May I kiss the bride,_ he had whispered, his voice husk and deep with an edge of something that stirred his heartstrings, and Angel was already so far _gone_ ; furthermore, he knew he couldn't refuse his boss.

Not that he wanted to, at the time.

Angel truly loved when Val acted more like his past self, as the gentle and passionate lover that had taken most of his firsts, and his heart wouldn't let him refuse that rare tenderness.

Ever since he'd joined the Hazbin Hotel, he'd felt _raw_ , and _hurt_ , and _angry_ , whenever Val touched him without his consent or in a violent way that he hadn’t agreed to beforehand, but this kindness was a well-accepted contradiction, and he'd revel in it for as long as he could have it.

It was his only comfort in Hell now, after a year of treatment in the Hotel and being almost completely clean for the last couple of months, the weekly blunts of marijuana being there to calm his nerves after his longer shifts.

The only PCP he could still ever feel was on Valentino's skin, the angel dust-laced sigarettes leaving their taste on those cruel lips, their smoke clinging to his skin and clothes like some expensive perfume.

“Sono tuo, Val, finché doppia morte non ci separi.” Angel had sworn, before being dragged into a heated, open-mouthed kiss, large hands fisting his fur and the lace that covered him like a spider's web.

They were using each other in the unhealthiest way, and Val _revelled_ in it, knowing that he had _literally_ taken the heart of the man he was kissing and groping, and the other didn't even _know_ it.

Angel, on the other hand, was lost in his inner turmoil.

Did he want this? _He did_ , Val was being kind, gentle and tender, and Angel had come up there knowing what his odds were.

He was aware that he'd been called either for a scolding, or for a quick fuck between his shifts, and the latter was certainly the preferred option.

But a voice that sounded a little too much like Charlie's wondered if he really, _really_ wanted it.

_What if he didn't? It wouldn't make a difference, anyway._

He can't say no, not anymore, _not to Val,_ and if he tried to refuse him, he would only ruin his pimp’s good mood and make him angrier, and he would risk getting tortured instead of fucked.

So, he would play the little bride and let Val do whatever he wanted with his body.

He would, _eventually_ , enjoy it in the end anyway, like Valentino always said.

**Author's Note:**

> Italian notes:  
> "Frocio": gay, queer, but as an insult.  
> "Sono tuo finché doppia morte non ci separi": I'm yours till double death do us apart, I literally took the wedding vows, yeah.
> 
> I personally wanna thank somebody who commented on the previous part of this series, @Niglie , 'cause they gave me a few points that I wanted to get a little deeper into, so I hope that point 2, and maybe kinda point 4, are answered. 
> 
> Next is definitely gonna be about Charlie talking it out with Angel, I wanna address his attack and possible PTSD, and maybe get a little into his recovery from drug addiction. 
> 
> I wanna write things that feel realistic, which is hard when the characters are fictional and live in Hell, a place where everything could be legit.
> 
> I also wanna write about Molly and Cherri, and do more than just mentioning them, gosh, I have ideas, but I don't have the skill.
> 
> Lucifer help me.
> 
> I wish you all a good twenty-four hours, 
> 
> Lily


End file.
